


Let Me Be the Calm You Seek

by dizzzylu



Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: Established Relationship, Frottage, M/M, Schmoop
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-03
Updated: 2011-05-03
Packaged: 2017-10-18 22:59:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,034
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/194243
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dizzzylu/pseuds/dizzzylu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's good to be home</p>
            </blockquote>





	Let Me Be the Calm You Seek

The last few weeks have been a whirlwind of activity: wrapping up filming; attending another outrageous wrap party; _Jus in Bello_ and hundreds of screaming fans in Italy. The last of which has forced an artificial distance between Jensen and Misha, something they’re not used to when they’re safe on set, among people who know how to keep a secret. People they can trust.

Because of all that, they are ridiculously happy to be heading home to LA. Almost giddy, in fact, which is only exacerbated by their exhaustion. It’s making them lazy and relaxed. Free of paparazzi, they walk closer together, close enough for their fingers to brush when they walk, tangle together while they’re waiting in line after line.

The high lasts as far as JFK, which is where their fifteen hour flight home stretches into twenty-one, thanks to some unforeseen maintenance issues, resulting in an ungodly layover.

Of course, it’s dinner time when they finally land at LAX, sunglasses immediately slotted into place to protect puffy, bloodshot eyes from the California glare. Cliff is nice enough to pick them up; even nicer are the heavily tinted windows in the back seat. Jensen and Misha have barely angled themselves and their carry-ons into the car before Cliff’s pulling away, radio turned low, air on high. It’s an unseasonably warm day for spring in California. Humid, too.

Cliff murmurs their names an hour later, the car coming to a smooth stop in their driveway. It takes a couple attempts before Jensen rouses himself, eyes squinting behind his aviators. He whispers in Misha’s ear, soft and warm. Misha curls into the sound, stubbornly clinging to his half-sleep. Jensen tries again, trailing his fingers down Misha’s arm, tugging gently on his hand until Misha squeezes back. His body bows in a stretch as he’s dragged into waking.

It’s a slow process, the two of them trying to coordinate their arms and legs, lugging their carry-ons to the porch, slotting the key into the lock. They barely wave at Cliff before disappearing into the house, where it’s nearly as hot and humid inside as it is out. Smells musty, too, after months of disuse. It would matter more if they were planning to stay awake.

They abandon their bags in the foyer, the keys in the dish on the sideboard. Shoes toed off, socks too, because it’s too much work to keep them on. Jensen thumbs on the air conditioning as he makes his way down the hall, their bedroom a welcome light at the end of a very long tunnel. Misha’s stumbling behind him, attempting to walk and shuck off his jeans at the same time.

They detour to the bathroom, clumsily brushing their teeth around each other; a normally well-choreographed process made awkward by lack of sleep and coordination. Jensen’s only got the sheets pulled back halfway before Misha faceplants on the bed, legs half hanging over the edge. Jensen snorts, pulls the free side of the sheets all the way down, rolls Misha over to do the same on the other side, then rolls him back. Misha grunts, either _thank you_ or _fuck off_ , Jensen can’t be sure. It doesn’t really matter.

He then peels his jeans off, slipping into the bed with a grace his sleep-deprived self shouldn’t possess. It’s still half light outside, but the room-darkening shades are keeping the bulk of it out, so Jensen has no problem tugging the sheets up over them both and falling asleep.

* * *

Jensen’s awake first, just as he ever is, trying to blink away the sleep blurring his eyes. It takes a long minute, almost two, for him to realize that he’s in his own bed, in California, and the warm lump snuffling into his neck is Misha. Jensen’s arm is tucked under Misha’s body, his hand underneath Misha’s t-shirt, palming the warm slope of his hip. Jensen doesn’t care that he can’t feel the arm, that once he gets it back, the pins and needles of the returning blood will be excruciating. He’s too busy enjoying the relief of dropping the pretense. Loving the fact that he is with Misha in his— _their_ —home, their _bed_.

Misha snorts quietly, shifting to get closer to Jensen with a leg between his thighs and an arm around his waist, as if his subconscious is making up for all the time they’ve had to keep a careful distance. Jensen’s arm tightens and he turns slightly, bringing Misha even closer, brushing his mouth against Misha’s forehead.

Carefully, he wriggles the trapped arm up, burying his fingers into dark, sleep-mussed hair. Jensen’s other hand splays wide in the small of Misha’s back, closing the little distance that remains between them. He scoots down, too, bringing them face to face so he can study Misha; drop kisses on the crest of his cheek, the thin skin at his temple, the corner of his mouth. Jensen buries his face in the crook of Misha’s neck to inhale deeply. He smells mostly of airplane and smog, but beneath that is Misha; a faint hint of the soap he uses, the cologne he wears. His sweat. Jensen’s missed that smell.

Jensen hooks his foot around Misha’s ankle, tangling their legs together as he slips his hand into Misha’s boxers, palming his ass. Misha mumbles at Jensen’s gentle squeeze, shifting so his knee settles snug against Jensen’s half-hard cock. Jensen responds by trailing kisses up Misha’s neck, stopping to suck at the skin just below his ear. “Wake up, Mish,” he says, voice low and rough from disuse, and rocks himself against Misha’s knee.

Misha groans then and Jensen’s hand in his hair tightens, a light scrape of fingernails against the scalp, to pull Misha’s head back a little. There’s a glint of blue behind sleep-heavy eyelids. Jensen rolls his hips again, smiling at the weight of Misha’s cock against his thigh. “If you don’t wake up,” he teases gently, “our sleep cycle’s gonna be fucked.”

Misha’s eyes slip closed, but he dips his head down to press a kiss to Jensen’s shoulder, breath hot and wet through the t-shirt. He hums, then mumbles, “Fucked being the key word?”

Jensen’s chuckle is low and dirty, and it hitches when Misha’s knee shifts up. “Somethin’ like that,” Jensen exhales, sleep and laziness turning the words honey soft with his Texas drawl.

Misha stretches, pulling his body tight from head to toe. Jensen takes advantage of the movement to roll Misha onto his back, slotting himself between Misha’s legs and stretching out to fit their bodies together. Propped up on his elbows, Jensen watches Misha blink and yawn, a valiant attempt to join the waking world. When his eyes finally stay open, Jensen dips his head in, steals a kiss.

It’s a chaste thing, nothing more than lips on lips. But it leads to a second, a third, a light suction at Misha’s bottom lip. And then Misha’s tilting his head, opening underneath Jensen, and they’re relearning each other, tongues sliding together to remap familiar territory.

Jensen pulls away and slides down, grinding their cocks together. The slow friction is torturous, but neither can be bothered to break the mood in the room, their sheets a protective cocoon. With a tug at the collar of his shirt, Jensen exposes Misha’s collarbone, and leans in to suck at the ridge of it. The last bruises disappeared days ago, another casualty of their vicious schedule, and Jensen’s set on making a new one. _Several_ new ones. A chain of them along the one side, something he can brush his thumb against later and remember. Something to remind Misha of what’s waiting for him when he’s stuck on location without Jensen to distract him.

Misha’s hands spear into Jensen’s hair, holding him in place as he starts to roll his hips in gentle wave of constant, satisfying pressure. Jensen’s hand slips under the hem of Misha’s shirt, thumb brushing against the soft skin of Misha’s hip every time it comes down.

Misha tugs at Jensen’s hair, guiding his head back up to nip at his lips. Misha’s rhythm falters, stops, and Jensen picks it up, fitting his cock in the groove of Misha’s hip. Their shirts ride up and their boxers catch together, pulling down a little. Jensen lets go of Misha’s hip to push them further down, so their cocks slide skin to skin, slicking precome over their stomachs.

Jensen’s moving slow and steady, open mouth bumping against Misha’s, their breaths mingling. The sounds they make are hushed, breathy moans, softer grunts, muted whimpers. Secrets kept between the sheets, belonging just to them. Things they don’t say, don’t _have_ to say, out loud.

You are mine, I am yours.

This is ours. _Only_ ours.

 _I love you._

There’s a hand on Jensen’s ass, pulling him down. Another under his shirt, slim fingers skimming up and down his sweat-slick spine. His breath hitches when the head of Misha’s cock catches on his, bumping the bundle of nerves there. Jensen’s head falls forward, the two-day scruff on his cheek rough against Misha’s matching half-beard. The rasp of it is inordinately loud in Jensen’s ear, but he rubs into it, and the vibration of Misha’s purr warms his chest.

A small, steady tingle starts at the base of Jensen’s spine, curling his toes, stuttering his rhythm. He’s panting words like _fuck_ and _yes_ and _Mish_. Misha replies with quiet little gasps of _Jen, **fuck** , Jen_. His hands are still on Jensen, a firm, grounding pressure when he starts rolling his hips again. One, two, three more thrusts and they’re coming, Misha after Jensen, hot and sticky on their skin and their shirts. Jensen slows but doesn’t stop rutting until Misha’s body slackens under his.

They lay there like that, Jensen’s forehead against Misha’s temple, his breath a hot, damp pulse over Misha’s neck. Misha’s got a hand back in Jensen’s hair, the pads of his fingers gentle against his scalp, petting him down. It sends a delicious shiver down Jensen’s spine, and Misha’s stubble scratches at the tip of his tongue, when Jensen licks his lips.

Jensen doesn’t want to move, but Misha’s shifting underneath him, tugging the hem of his shirt up, and Jensen pulls back just a little. Enough for Misha to strip his shirt off and use it to swipe at the mess on their skin. The clean-up isn’t perfect, but Jensen doesn’t care, drops back onto Misha to kiss him. It’s slow, sweet. Hardly any tongue, just a hint of teeth. He sucks at Misha’s upper lip, a little longer at the lower. He’s laying fully on Misha, his arm having given out a long time ago, but Misha can take it. He always does.

Finally sated and still more than a little tired, Jensen shifts to the side, rests his head on the pillow and faces Misha. His hand cups Misha’s cheek, his thumb sweeping over the swell of it again and again. Misha tilts toward him, mouth brushing against Jensen’s wrist as he adjusts their boxers back into some semblance of normal. Then his hands are on Jensen; his cheek, the side of his neck, wrapping around his wrist to ghost a kiss over the pulse. One palm flat on Jensen’s stomach, the other skimming up his back, gathering his shirt as they go. Jensen lifts himself up, allowing Misha to strip him. When he lays back down, Misha’s bent over him, pressing bruising kisses to Jensen’s ribs, a matching reminder to the marks on his collar bone.

With a hand on the back of his neck, Jensen pulls him back up for a kiss. Misha’s fingers are still wandering, trying to relearn familiar dips and lines, and Jensen grabs his wrist to place the hand against his chest. He slings a leg over Misha’s, too, effectively pinning him in place.

Keeping his eyes open is a lost cause, so Jensen settles in, blinks coming longer and longer while he drags his palm up and down Misha’s side. Misha trails his knuckles over Jensen’s eyes, chuckling. “What about our sleep cycle?” he teases, yawning at the end.

Jensen grins. “Fuck it.”

Misha doesn’t disagree.

**Author's Note:**

> So, annundriel and I were chatting about JIB2 on Twitter awhile ago, and I said, “Y’know, those poor guys must be exhausted from all the stuff they’ve been doing lately. There was a California con not too long ago, then PaleyFest, finishing up the season, etc etc. I think this calls for some early morning frottage of the established relationship variety.” In a move that will surprise no one, she agreed. I think she thought I was hinting that she should write it. Boy was she surprised! ;)
> 
> (Or maybe not)
> 
> This is a fic of firsts for me. The first fic I’ve written in over 10 years; the first in SPN fandom; my first RPS, which I always said I’d never read, let alone write (obstinatrix and annundriel are to blame for _that_ conversion); and my first slash semi-smut. So, I really need to thank kriari, obstinatrix, and nanoochka for soothing my nerves and cleaning up my careless mistakes (I did some editing after they got to it, so if there are still mistakes, they are my own).
> 
> And even though this is FOR her, I have to thank annundriel, too. Just because.


End file.
